Gluttony
by Dala1
Summary: Ron Weasley, glutton of the senses. (R/D, short)


Title: Gluttony  
Author: Dala  
Rating: R for some language and teensy, teensy bit of sex  
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy  
Archive: Take it if'n you want it.  
Feedback: Better than chocolate. Well, no, nothing's better than chocolate. But it's still really, really good.  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc.  
Author's Note: Something different from me! Didn't see this one coming, I can tell you that. But Ron sort of attacked me and demanded it written, so here it be.   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
I have never been able to tell when I've had enough of something. The farthest back I can remember, it was candy. I'd hide Chocolate Frogs and Bott's Beans and every other sweet available under my mattress, stuffing myself sometimes to the point of sickness. My mother once said that of all her children I was the greediest nurser and the hardest to wean: I'd just hang on to that nipple, even after my infant stomach was bloated with my meal, and I'd wail if denied.  
  
Thank goodness for the Weasley genes, which tend to mean a pudgy childhood slacking off into rail-thinness at ten or so, and eventually some fairly impressive musculature (I have not hit this third stage yet). When I began to lose my obsession with food, I selected Quidditch as a substitute. Read every book I could find (not merely looking at the pictures, mind), begged Bill and Charlie for their own tales, turned my room into a Chudley Cannon shrine, wore out three toy brooms. And this all during the summer before my first year at Hogwarts. Many days I'd fly off after lunch and not return till well past dusk -- one of my brothers was always assigned to keep an eye on me, but none of them ever did much beyond yelling the occasional "Oi! Ron!" from our back door. I dreamt of flying every night and slept with a tiny model of a racing broom in my hand. Percy told me that I'd better not because I would roll over in my sleep and break it and then wouldn't I be sorry, but I never did any such thing.  
  
Then came Hogwarts, and Harry. He was my new obsession. That first summer home my family ground their teeth and threatened to put a Silencing Charm on me; for all those long, hot months, it was nothing but Harry this and Harry that and oh yes, I haven't mentioned Harry yet today.  
  
I don't think it was a romantic attachment, exactly, though I'd definitely call it a crush. The most famous boy in the world had chosen me as his friend -- not just grown gradually closer to me, but actively *chosen* me. To a sixth child this was tantamount to heroism, and even though I found myself under someone else's shadow once again, that someone was completely unaware of it. Harry didn't care that Charlie had been a Quidditch star for Gryffindor or that Bill had been Head Boy or that Percy was really clever or that the twins were everyone's idea of a good party. Harry just cared about *me*. And of course, life with him has never dull. Trouble is enamored with Harry Potter and follows him around like a lovesick puppy. By this year, we've grown closer in some ways and apart in others: we discovered girls (or rather, Harry discovered girls and I discovered both boys and girls), we sweated through a few more Voldemort run-ins, we've led the House in a few championships. He has a look in his eyes these days, a look like grit, and I know he's preparing for the war in his extra defense training with Dumbledore, and the infrequent sessions with Sirius Black. My Harry-obsession relaxed into a Harry-love and Harry-friendship.  
  
And now . . . well, there's now. Now I am a glutton of the senses.  
  
Sight: lean Seeker's body tangled in sun-warmed bedsheets (mine or his, doesn't matter).  
  
Smell: scent of ash from the dungeons, aftershave (though he has barely enough light fuzz to necessitate shaving), sometimes a faint whiff of nutmeg. And money, of course.  
  
Sound: voice lowered with heat, moaning my name (surname, usually, but sometimes he slips).  
  
Taste: skin, all of his skin, lips, tongue, collarbone, inside of elbow, genitals.  
  
Touch . . . always touch. Touch the one I really can't seem to get my fill of.  
  
It's his damn fault I'm here right now, in this hospital bed. We have potions with Slytherin for the seventh year in a row and I was thinking of how his pale skin reddens when I put my mouth to it. This year our potions are complicated and frequently dangerous. Sometimes Snape has no immediate antidote. So here I am, after adding too much ragweed and not enough crocodile scales, thus turning my invisibility draught to a poison that will leave me shaky and riddle with headaches for several days.  
  
Fan-bloody-tastic. As if he hasn't already given me enough headaches.  
  
Harry, Hermione, and Ginny have gone, leaving flowers and candy in their wake. I don't dare touch the candy; it bears the twins' label. I can't smell the flowers from here, but I imagine they'd only make my skull pound harder. Madam Pomfrey has gone to get some kind of serum from Snape, so I'm alone and I know it's only a matter of time before he shows up.  
  
Sure enough the door creaks open and he slips inside, making no sound. He never does.  
  
"Shite," I mutter halfheartedly, because I don't think I have the energy to deal with him, and how he makes my insides boil, right now.  
  
"Thanks," he replies without looking at me, instead choosing to glance around the room, eyes falling on the gifts with a smirk. Then his gaze meets mine.  
  
So cold. Like always when he isn't within arm's reach, I wonder why we do this. I still don't like the son of a bitch, haven't forgotten the litany of cruel words we have exchanged over the years. I can't even claim to be blinded by animal lust, because he's not particularly handsome -- short, too skinny, his complexion as bloodless as any vampire's.   
  
But I know that the second he is close enough to touch, all these thoughts will evaporate and he'll be beautiful. Either he has to leave before I hex him or he's got to come to my bedside, because I can't stand him just leaning against the doorframe and *looking* at me, the bastard.  
  
Finally he says, "Weasley," with a slight inclination of his head and a trace of well-bred scorn.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
Pause while he flicks a bit of dust off robes that cost more than my entire year's pocketmoney. I despise him, I really do.  
  
There is no trace of concern in his voice as he says, "You all right?" Maybe he *has* been worried, but I certainly don't see it. He'd never let me in that far. Stupid git. I hate him to the core.   
  
"Fuck," he says suddenly, abrasively, and crosses the room in long strides. Then without preamble his hands are on my shoulders and his lips are on my own, and I need him again.  
  
That's the way it always is. He runs his hand down to my hip and I remember the first time. Spitting at each other in a deserted eighth-floor hall, fists clenched at our sides, and the only thing I could do to shut him up was to leap at him. It took me several moments to realize that I was kissing him instead of hitting him, and by then his arms were wrapped tight around me, my back was pressed against the wall, and I saw no point in resistence.   
  
Real education, as he proved to me that afternoon, takes place outside of the classroom.  
  
Back to now and the familiar warmth spreading through my body, though this time it is more sweet than frantic. Sweet like candy. Maybe an after-effect of the potion.  
  
His grip on me relaxes and I shift over onto my side, letting him lie down beside me. I stretch out against his back, pressing my face to his shoulder blade and the back of his neck.  
  
Everything changes when it's like this.  
  
"Draco," I whisper onto his skin, so quietly that it might have been just a thought. But he hears.  
  
"Ron," he replies, his fingers laced through mine. Our words send a shiver of excitement through me. For us, using first names is akin to expressing our undying love. Well, maybe not 'undying love', but at least some type of emotional commitment.  
  
It's getting harder to forget this when we're not touching, to forget exactly how it feels. How it's better than chocolate, better than Quidditch, better than laughing with my friends.  
  
Here's a frightening thought: perhaps this is the one obsession from which I won't recover. 


End file.
